Addiction
by aabchamp
Summary: Abby angst with a little carby twist.


**Title: ADDICTION**

**Author:** aabchamp

**Category:** Angst

**Rating: **PG 13, I guess…

**Description:** Stand alone. Abby angst with a little carby twist.

**Disclaimer:** Yadayadayada. You know the drill.

**Notes:** Another one of those fics that I wrote ages ago. Don't really know if I like it myself, but I figured that someone might enjoy it while we impatiently wait for the next season to begin.

And so it begins…

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At first I sit there. Staring. Wanting. Needing. The vivid color of the liquid in front of me urging me to grab it, to hold on, to drink. To welcome the familiar sensation as it rushes, speeds through my body, within seconds leaving. The effect, the tingling sensation in my fingers, my toes. The way every bone, every muscle, every nerve seem to react, to take in the substance, to claim it as their own.

My eyes are focused, fixated on the seemingly transparent and glasslike surface of the item. I can barely deduct my face. I know it's there, mirroring my emotions. The image is out of focus, laughing at me. I laugh back, trying to hide, to cover, to pretend that everything is fine. Pretend that I'm not sitting here, tied to a chair, chained to an addiction.

I want it, I need it. I lose my focus and everything is a blur. My mind is tumbling, my head is spinning, and all I sense is the warmth of the air in the room enveloping the coldness of my body, embracing me, sending shivers down my spine. Suffocating. I catch my breath, suddenly reminded of those warm summer days way back then, back when…

…Innocently running, seemingly without direction. Enjoying the hot humid air, the sweet feeling of little drops of sweat gathering on my skin, growing into larger pools of salty liquid before finally erupting, trickling energetically down various parts of my sun burnt body. Catching fireflies in the evening. Gazing at the changing color of the sun. Yellow turning into orange turning into red. Turning into night. Blackness. The moonlight glaring at my bare arms, contrasting shadows tracing criss-cross patterns of light and darkness on my skin…

I see myself: a fragile shape, a cardboard cut-out trembling with dizziness. It seems so excruciatingly easy to just grab what is there right in front of me. I look away, frantically, trying to avoid the persistent relief action of my bad conscience. Insisting, generating me towards recovery.

I'm terrified of the empty feeling in the pit of my stomach: the void that audaciously urges my mind to transgress all boundaries of reason, to give in to the ever growing need for separation. To succumb to the surge that threatens to eliminate the tangible progression of my sanity.

I reach out, slowly moving my hand towards the graceful item on the table. In an almost cliché-like fashion I gaze at my moving arm, paying close attention to the way it consistently moves in slow motion. I notice every little detail from the way the air around my body seems to grow profusely colder as my arm draws alarmingly closer, to the rapidly increasing beating of my heart.

I'm not used to feeling like this. It seems unbearable the way I have suddenly lost control. I'm reminded of the pain I used to feel when I did this on a daily basis; the feeling of alcohol slicing through my body like a jagged edged sword, causing immense physical pain but at the same time relieving me of my emotional miseries. Then why, since I don't need this anymore since for the first time in my life I'm content with what I have, does my arm still approach the item on the table? Why do I still feel this insurmountable need for relief?

Mere inches from touching, I'm startled by the serene heat the item emits, burning, adding small water droplets on my sticky palms. I'm surprised, curiously interested in the physical element of it all. Reversed gravity, a magnetizing force of unknown proportions that enables a motion deep within me, a need to do anything else but sit here watching as I'm about to cross the line that I have conveniently drawn as a part of my recovery.

Finally, I cave. The sweat in my palms causes my fingers to turn cold as they one by one wrap themselves around the smooth, slippery surface. Ambiguity. It's strange how something so wrong can feel so right. This diplomatic, moderating construction that keeps floating in my mind, the moral dilemma of choosing between right and wrong. My senses have kicked into full force with an unknown augmentation force, and I feel a stirring deep in my stomach as I sense the liberating smell of what will soon wash down my willing throat.

"What are you doing Abby?"

Suddenly, I'm aware of his presence in the room. Usually, my radar kicks in, blaring out some kind of conspicuous warning signal whenever he's around. I'm afraid to ask what he's doing there, afraid to admit that I had been out there threading water, risking it all. Afraid to admit to him that my addiction still exists: a little devil shaped fool who once and again chooses to show his taunting face in the back of my mind. Afraid to look at his face, his eyes as they watch me darkly, traced with disappointment, exhausted of the vicious circle that seems to have taken hold of me. Afraid to admit that I need him.

So I don't. I just sit there, subconsciously hoping that ignoring him will cause him to leave me alone. Hoping that he will interpret my cold attitude towards him as being due to the early hour of the day. Hoping that the coldness of the room will make him go back to bed.

Of course he doesn't.

I tense up as I hear him approaching, my body going almost rigid at the sound of his footsteps on the hard wooden floor. I feel his breath on my neck as he steps up behind me, wrapping his arms around my body, holding me in a tight secure grasp. And then I relax. I relax as an inexplicable transfusion of energy takes place. I relax as the warmth of his body radiates through his robe, sending calm collected rushes of security, recharging me. I relax at the mere thought of being wrapped up in his arms forever, not having to worry about anything else but him, us.

"You know you aren't allowed to drink that," he says, gently removing the cup from my hands before holding it up to his own lips, happily taking a sip of the dark liquid, "you know with the baby and all," he adds by way of explanation.

"Yeah, I know," I answer as I turn around to look at him, suddenly in a better mood. "It's just so damn tempting."

He looks back at me, amusement painted in his eyes as he states lightly,

"Jesus Abby, it's just coffee."


End file.
